In a world where adventuring companies are named and treated like rock bands, Saga is re-forming for the impossible mission of rescuing their frontman’s daughter from a city besieged by monsters. Although the obvious question is: can they still bring it?

Sample passage

The shield was named for a rampaging treant who had led a living forest on a month long killing spree through southern Agria. Blackheart and his arboreal army had wiped out several villages before laying siege to Hollow Hill. Though a few stalwart defenders remained to protect their homes, Clay and his bandmates had been the only real fighters in town. The ensuing battle, which lasted for almost a week and claimed the life of one of Saga’s numerous unlucky bards, was the subject of more songs than could be sung in a day.

Clay himself had cut down Blackheart, and from the treant’s corpse had hewn the wood from which he’d fashioned his shield. It had saved his life more times than all his bandmates together, and was Clay’s most cherished possession. Its surface told the story of countless trials: here gouged by the razor claws of a harpy broodmother, there mottled by the acid breath of a mechanized bull. Its weight was a familiar comfort, even if the strap was starting to chafe, and the top lip kept scraping the back of his head, and his shoulders ached like a plough horse hitched to a granite wagon.

Takeaway

This is one of the best fantasy novels I’ve read in years. It’s well written, original, dramatic, funny, staged in a meticulously well-built world, and while there’s a whole lot going on, Eames juggles it all brilliantly to create one hell of a ride.

To just say that it’s about adventuring companies being treated like rock bands would really belittle the execution, as the book reads well on a couple of levels. If you don’t get the rock and roll references, the book reads perfectly as dark fantasy with moments of levity. If you do catch them, and there are a number of spots where I’m pretty sure I know who Eames was referencing, it’s a bit of an insight as to how the real world model may have informed the character’s development. The book has a really unique tone, in that it reminded me of the more gritty, realistic fantasy of Joe Abercrombie, mixed with the levity of Terry Pratchett’s later Discworld novels, and set in a world that felt like Glen Cook’s Black Company might be wandering around somewhere. So if you’re a fan of any of that, I highly recommend giving Kings of the Wyld a read.

To prove it’s worthy of survival, humanity has to beat at least one other race in a galactic talent contest, otherwise they’ll literally come in dead last.

Sample passage

Life isn’t difficult, it isn’t picky, it isn’t unique, and fate doesn’t enter into the thing. Kick-starting the gas-guzzling subcompact go-cart of organic sentience is as easy as shoving it down a hill and watching the whole thing spontaneously explode. Life wants to happen. It can’t stand not happening. Evolution is ready to go at a moment’s notice, hopping from one foot to another like a kid waiting in line for a roller coaster, so excited to get on with the colored lights and the loud music and the upside-down parts, it practically pees itself before it even pays the ticket price. And that ticket price is low, low, low. U-Pick-Em inhabitable planets, a dollar a bag! Buy-one-get-one specials on attractive and/or menacing flora and fauna! Oxygen! Carbon! Water! Nitrogen! Cheap! Cheap! Cheap! And, of course, all the intelligent species you can eat. They spin up overnight, hit the midway of industrial civilization, and ride the Giant Dipper Ultra-Cyclone till they puke themselves to death or achieve escape velocity and sail their little painted plastic bobsleds out into the fathomless deep.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Yes, life is the opposite of rare and precious. It’s everywhere; it’s wet and sticky; it has all the restraint of a toddler left too long at day care without a juice box. And life, in all its infinite and tender intergalactic variety, would have gravely disappointed poor gentle-eyed Enrico Fermi had he lived only a little longer, for it is deeply, profoundly, execrably stupid.

Takeaway

This books opens with a quote from Lordi’s Hard Rock Hallelujah (which was unquestionably the high water mark of the Eurovision Song Contest) and my only thought was “Dear God, please let this book look live up to it’s potential.” Well I gotta say this book did not disappoint, which leaves me wondering: HOW THE HELL HAVE I NEVER HEARD OF CATHERYNNE M. VALENTE BEFORE? She’s been published since, like, 2004, has like, 8 books and a ton of other stuff. What the hell, man?

Ok, that said, Space Opera is pretty much something Douglas Adams would have written if he’d downed eight pots of coffee and condensed the smartass asides of the Hitchhiker’s Trilogy into one book. And while you’d be right for thinking that would be a terrible idea. That nobody is Douglas Adams. That those books had a whole lot of weird going on, and it’s the sort of lightning in a bottle nobody’s seen before or since, and that there’s just no way that’s gonna work. You’d be wrong.

Look, this thing is dense. And not dense in a dry concrete way, but in a chocolate torte way. There’s a lot to unpack on every page, and as ludicrous as the backgrounds about alien races are, and why they need to have this contest in the first place, it all makes a shocking amount of sense and holds together really well as punchline logic—the setup seems ridiculous, and then it all makes sense. There’s all kinds of details in here—for example I’m pretty sure all the chapter titles have been performed at the Eurovision song contest. When I’m reading a book, I’ll bookmark a couple of pages that really illustrate the author’s style, or lend some insight into the plot, or generally be useful for review purposes to provide a sample of what a potential reader would be in for, and I gotta say I’ve never bookmarked anything as much as this book.

If you’re a fan of Douglas Adams, you should definitely read this book.

Years after their band broke up and their lead singer shot to superstardom, he’s staging a comeback tour, and for various reasons, this doesn’t sit well with forgotten lead guitarist Kris Pulaski, who can’t exactly remember what happened that night it all fell apart, but she’s going to figure it out, and if there’s one thing she knows for sure, it’s that “A girl with a guitar never has to apologize.”

Sample passage

Suddenly, in a violent rush, Scottie Rocket had snatched the pages out of Terry’s hands and ripped them in half, threw the pieces up in the air, gotten in Terry’s face.

All these years later, she finally understood what Scottie meant. She needed to sing songs about something bigger than this world. She needed to play about something more than the soulless country she saw around her. The blues were about the pain and struggle of living inside Black Iron Mountain. Metal showed you a door.

She wasn’t famous, she wasn’t rich, she didn’t even have her own photo ID. She was just a musician. But you fought with the weapons you had, not with the ones you wished for.

Kris couldn’t put it off any longer. She bought a ticket to Wichita, Kansas, with everything she had, and got on the bus with empty pockets and an empty stomach, riding through the Midwest to find the one person who hated Terry more than she did, the one person she could maybe still trust.

Takeaway

You know, when asked to name your favorite Hendrix, I’m betting most people wouldn’t answer ‘Grady’, but then most people probably haven’t read We Sold Our Souls, his love letter to the spirit of heavy metal. Were it not for the fact that the title is a bit of a spoiler, and that the way one thing leads to another makes it difficult to say much without dropping spoilers, I’d have nothing to complain about. The pacing, the plotting, the characters, the elements of satire, and the feeling of what it’s like to be in a band, or to just love that band, is all spot on. You don’t have to be a fan of heavy metal to appreciate this, but if you’ve ever had a song speak to you, it’s definitely worth a read. Oh, and there’s some freaky stuff that starts happening about a third of the way through. Keep an eye out.

So, what other books should be on this list? Leave your thoughts in the Facebook comments, and stay tuned for my next column.

Alex Doyle is a father, programmer, smartass and a fan of anything that wastes no time to getting to the point. When he's not trying to be clever on the Internet, or irritating his kids with dad jokes, he can be found looking for the next great story that everyone has to read.

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As someone who also can no longer drink and who deals with some stuff, I can tell you that we never want people to feel bad for making drinking references or to feel like they can't enjoy themselves around us. Offer sympathy but keep treating her as you always have. Maybe check in more. But don't grieve any harder than she is, because she'll end up carrying that, too, and she'll worry about your feelings. You sound like a good friend. Just keep being one.

Reading your post this afternoon. Did you look into my heart? My friend from college, now 30+ years ago has pulmonary hypertension and is in failing health. She’s 54 with a limited life expectancy. Yesterday, I sent a picture for cute-as-can-be mason jar shot glasses that I found in a discount store to a former coworker. We’ve kept in touch via FB and messaging. She comments the glasses are cute but she doesn’t drink anymore. Then she txts she has Lupus. The world falls from beneath me. I wondered around the store for maybe another 20 minutes. Numb. Exchanging texts with this friend. And I felt so bad about that picture. And I felt guilty for my health. And i was ashamed of my feeble replies to her. So regular sad is sometimes at the foot of my bed. Or greets me at the door after work and I find my dog has once again pooped in the house and chewed up an ink pen or shredded a book. But today I’m big sad. Last night, crawled in the covers beside me and sits just out of sight. But here. I’m ashamed of myself. With all my bills paid, manageable expenses. And now two people who have shackles of worry and fear and other feelings I couldn’t even begin to imagine. If only crawling through broken glass could convey us to the other side

My girlfriend's and I get together rarely and there's actually 2 different groups but it's always fun! They're infrequent but always special! I am the type of person that rolls with the flow and if we can arrange it, great! But it's not expected or required and that makes our get-togethers special!